


It's people like you that keep it turned on

by Al_D_Baran



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Paris, Alternate Universe - World War II, Budding Love, Cabarets, F/M, France (Country), Genderswap, Hand Jobs, Moulin Rouge AU, Mutual Pining, Nazis, Nyotalia, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sex Work, Smut, The Saboteur AU, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Al_D_Baran/pseuds/Al_D_Baran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The French are glad to die for love. (Moulin Rouge/The Saboteur AU, hetero!fruk)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's people like you that keep it turned on

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I wrote this during a pretty hardcore writer's block and I edited it a few times, but there may still be some mistakes here and there. More tags and archive warnings will be added as everything moves along.

“ _Mesdames et Messieurs… accueillez nos danseuses de ce soir !_ ”

            The cabaret was flooded with lights as the curtain was parted, a dozen beautiful girls pouring out of the backstage to start dancing to a playful sax song. All of them, all smiling as wide as the next, their plump red lips shining in the white lights of the stage. The shiny jewellery all over their body shone like the sweat covering their breasts and hips. Men cheered and jeered, some whistling. The girls sent kiss toward all of them, playing with their desires for the money to come for them.

The room was filled with the murmurs and chauvinistic comments of the men, all dressed in the same, black uniforms with a bright red armband. They watched and they ogled, the sometimes moving spotlight showing one of them as the spectacle continued. The fair-skinned, light-haired men had been allowed there freely, the owner eyeing them nervously. But the girls danced, winking for them, charming without any efforts as eyes were all directed to their voluptuous assets of this dim-lit place of debauchery.

The music stopped, the light dimming. The silence so deep only a cough from a man could be heard, the spotlight moved to centre of the stage. A moment passed, enough for one of the men to complain in broken French that he hadn’t come there to watch an ugly carpet. Yet, nothing moved before a minute more, the curtain lifting slowly to allow a blonde woman to walk on stage, slowly, hips sashaying gracefully in her movements.

Arthur felt his heart stop. Like every nights he sat there, there was not a prettier sight in Paris. If Montmartre was a place of debauchery, then, it had its own, moving Joconde, an art work of fluid red, white and gold. The Briton wondered, hearing his father’s voice inside his mind, how stupid he had to be to have fallen in love with a lowly prostitute. Yet, there was something else about Violette, the star of the _Éros_.  

If every other dancers had been dressed colourfully, the newest one, blonder than any, was dressed all in white, as if to imply she was purer, better than any of these bright birds. Breasts uncovered as any other, she wore diamonds all over her, some even stuck to her alabaster skin. Mesmerized every men watched as she danced and sung, all of the dancers gathering around her, clearly only as a complement. Back up dancers. She was the star.

“ _Et voici notre étoile !_ ” declared the announcer in a thundering voice, claps and whistles covering him voice before he was even finished speaking. The girls smiled, bowing as the lights flickered back on. A voice in the speaker cryptically announced flowers could be bought at the bar, adding a few prices. The girls all left for the back stage, the curtains closing onto them.

With one last look to the stage, Arthur could have sworn she was watching him with a little smile on her lips.

Arthur had a pinch in his heart each time he saw Violette leave with one of these men, smiling as if she was pleased by these terrible men dragging her upstairs hurriedly, eager to simply empty themselves. He knew how entitled he sounded – yet, the love he felt for her was there, it was only natural it felt right for _him_ to be with her. Jealousy was to expect, when one fell in love with a woman like this.

.

.

.

“There you are,” Françoise said, turning around as she stopped to powder her nose. She was still dishevelled from her night with the officer, turning to him with those playful indigo eyes. Barely covered by a black satin dressing gown, the star of _L’Éros_ watched him playfully, not unlike how a cat would have been interested in a trapped mouse’s behaviour as it played with it.

If watching Françoise – her stage name being Violette – was an enjoyable act in which he relinquished, happy to be able to look at her, speaking to her grated his nerves. The woman was simply terrible and yet, they needed her. Sleeping with unaware and perhaps naïve officers most nights, when none knew she spoke German more than to ask the time, they needed her. Saboteurs like his friends needed all the help they could get, be it a lowly Montmartre whore.

It was the only reason he had accepted to be an informer. A little rat spying, a spy ratting… It didn’t matter. He knew nothing of these men and wanted to know nothing of who they were, but at least, it allowed him to be with Françoise, in her comfortable apartment, even if it was to fight like cat and dog.

“Aren’t I always there?” Arthur said, a little smile on his lips. Françoise was terribly comfortable with him. He could guess she wore not a thing under this robe, as if waiting to be uncovered.

“ _Bien sûr_. As if you would go anywhere else.” Giggling, she stood up, feet moving as if on clouds, coming to him. She was almost as tall as he was, probably a little taller with the impressive heels she wore while dancing. The idea of her, naked, next to him, with those heels one, was always terribly appealing. “Maybe you could come more often. I’d rather not feel too used.” She was just a messenger, sleeping with men to know their secrets… beautiful women were always dangerous, had he been told by fairy tales.

The idea of coming more often flustered him. Sputtering, Arthur blinked. “Wha – really? You would want me to come more often?”

Françoise giggled, letting her index run over his cheek. “You are quite an interesting man, Mr Kirkland. You write wonderful poetry. I have read it in the journal.” Arthur almost chocked. He couldn’t believe she had liked it. Flattered more than he wanted to show, and unable to hide as much as he wanted, the Briton pinched his lips, glaring at the mischievous smile of this devil. “I would feel like a duchess, being read poetry by someone as I lay in bed, eating chocolates…”

“You French are so lazy.” If only he could have hated this princess-like, capricious woman. Bonnefoy was the worst contact he had ever dealt with. And yet, he wished to have more, he too, enthralled, like all these men by this wicked, stunning enchantress.

“We have business to attend to,” Arthur tried to change the subject.

“But will you come? Next thur… _euh, mardi prochain ?_ ” she asked, looking hopeful even.

Arthur tried to resist, yet, heard himself say before he could even think about it, “I will.”

.

.

.

The cabaret was just as busy as always, packed with people in each and every corners. This time, Arthur was accompanied by two other resistant, both immigrants who had fled from Spain and Franco’s rule. Antonio was the youngest of the two brothers, the worst of the two, an obvious imbecile and Françoise’s best friend. As for Arthur… well, if they were allies, they weren’t quite friends. Getting into as much fights as possible, the two had a fiery temperament, clashing without end. As for the elder, Emilio, he had found in him a best friend. An active part of their little network, the man was the one to lead all of their operations. Antonio was too impulsive and as for him, he was only there for Françoise.

The night went without any troubles, the troops being, however, much more furnished than usual. A man dressed in a long, black trench coat entered, setting his wet cap on the table. Obviously highly-graded, the tall man observed the silent room with his icy blue eyes, sitting down with an unimpressed pout toward the stage.

Antonio groaned. “There’s Beilschmidt,” he said, watching the tall, muscular blonde man from where he sat, chugging down his beer with a scoff.

“Beilschmidt?” he asked, confused.

“Of course you little poet wouldn’t know…”

Arthur glared, ready to lash at the irritating Iberian, when Emilio laid a hand on the table, shaking his head at their petty dispute. “He’s… well, _the_ boss in the area. A very powerful man. He barely shows himself. Guess he’s heard of Françoise’s nice tits.” The wink he sent him made him want to strangle him. Was his love for her that obvious? Arthur grumbled, glad the dim-lighting was probably hiding the blush of his cheeks and ears.

For a second, Arthur feared it had indeed been _that_ obvious, and Françoise only wanted him to come to her home to mock him. Could she be so mean? Arthur couldn’t believe such a thing – Françoise loved to tease, but there was nothing cruel behind her words –, yet his lack of self-confidence murmured to his ear that she had to be playing with him, like the temptress she was. She was a dancer after all, a courtesan. Courtesans and poets never had happy endings, or even a beginning, that he knew how much. His love was an hopeless matter.

When the lights where off and Violette stepped on stage, Arthur watched, thinking she indeed looked like a star, shimmering, shining in the light of the projectors, covered in diamonds and pearls. She shone so brightly and Arthur guessed he would only be pulled into her gravity and be destroyed if he stepped too close. She wasn’t someone for him. They were different. She was beautiful and he was a proletarian’s son, destined only to a life working in a factory.

With the lights flickering back on as Françoise left, Arthur could see Beilschmidt order an officer to get the bartender.

A flower would be bought tonight, yet again.

.

.

.

Beilschmidt turned out to be nothing bigger than any other officer – he hadn’t said anything interesting and they weren’t even a step further than last night. The man had barely spoken a word, Françoise had said, looking genuinely disturbed by her encounter with the man. She was silent for most of the time he was there, Arthur wished he could have asked. Something was wrong. But he couldn’t know, couldn’t ask. They were different, just allies. Leaving to her be with her own thoughts, Arthur swallowed his saliva, having to pick up every little bits of his courage to leave a hand-written poem under a perfume bottle, leaving the room with one last look behind.

Maybe they were different, unable to meet like lovers did. It couldn’t have stopped him from showing his affection still, for what was love if he didn’t even allow himself to hope?

.

.

.

Beilschmidt, it turned out, came back every nights after the first time. Grumbling, jealousy rising in him, Arthur watched him come through the door each time with a glare to his drink. Damn Kraut. The man was handsome at least, terribly well-dressed, prim and proper. Hitler probably dreamed about the man in his wet dreams. He was the Aryan ideal, to say the least. Blonde with pale skin and blue eyes, he was taller than most man could ever dream to be and looked like he made entirely of muscles, every of them outlined perfectly by his uniform.

Digging into his past much as he could, Arthur couldn’t find anything interesting. The man was a little young to hold such a position, and yet, even as he had heard rumours of terrible things the Krauts his kind seemed to be fond of, Arthur hadn’t found a single thing about him, good or bad. The man was a proved strategist and had helped the Germans win more than a few battles, showed enough mercy and didn’t had any terrible did attached to his pedigree. The perfect little Nazi, minus the cruelty he would have wished to attach to him, just to be able to hate him more.

Somehow… Beilschmidt just tickled him in all the wrong ways. The way he never looked away from Françoise, as if unblinking, watching her… Arthur was jealous, he readily admitted, but more than this, Françoise had been odd ever since he had first entered the cabaret and had a night with her. Each night, he would pay for her, more than any other man could have and won her affection for the night. It looked increasingly difficult for her to fake happiness about it, even with the amount of money she made due to him.

Sneaking into the lodges on the Sunday before their planned meeting, Arthur walked between the lightly dressed – or even naked – dancers, all of them watching him with curiosity, sometimes a grin as they looked back to Françoise. The Brit made his way to her mirror, finding her slumped over it, head in her hand, a bottle of wine and a glass next to her. Was she crying? On an impulse, he stepped closer to place a hand on her shoulder. Françoise turned to him, watching him without saying a word, smiling tiredly.

“Arthur,” she slurred, getting up to hug him, as if glad to see he was the one to have surprised her. Blushing at the idea of having a woman’s naked breasts against his half-opened shirt, Arthur could feel the warmth of her skin against his, something hard, perhaps due to the cold… She had to be drunk, to hold him like this so suddenly...

“Françoise.” He had hissed it, pushing her away lightly, unable not to look at her, as if differently now that he could put a face on the man who slept with her every night. “You’re…” He didn’t want to say it. “You’re drunk and—”

“How clever. Did you guess that on your own?” She laughed, taking another gulp from the bottle, leaning against him, apparently happier once lightly buzzed by the sting of the alcohol. She pulled his hand to her stomach, purring happily. “You have nice hands… mmh… they write beautiful things. Thank you for the poem. I… never felt more beautiful than after reading it.”

Arthur sputtered, trapped there, one hand over her soft skin, unable not to remember his own words. Vibrant like a star… eyes shining with constellations of stars. He had compared her to the Universe, unknown, bright, whom all’s eyes were turned to, to admire, untouchable but for the most daring, impossible to understand but for those who knew the music of the stars.

“Oh, well, I, uh… I’m happy you liked it…” Fire burned his cheeks. He had wrote this poem in a few minutes, enamoured by the fiery appearance of his love, the first time he had seen her on stage, shining, beautiful, unreachable.

“I didn’t just like it,” Françoise murmured, enigmatically, looking up to him with a smile, which quickly faded with a sniffle, turning around to hide her face into his neck. “I don’t want to go there… I don’t want to lay with him again, Arthur he… he’s _odd_.”

No shit, Arthur thought, feeling an intrusive pride about having guessed right, but chased it. Now was not the time to brag or even say a word about this. His friend needed to have someone to turn to, not remind her that she would be seeing a possibly dangerous man in merely minutes and it was his duty to give all of his affection to her.

“How odd?”

“He just… he just touches me. He hasn’t… he hasn’t fucked me.” Pulling away to look at him with a frown. “Yet.” As comforting as the thought seemed to be for the both for them, it perhaps was only a matter of time. Françoise led him to sit down on the nearest couch, shaking her head. “I didn’t get it at first… but I think… he says I am not to be tainted.” She laughed, as if amused. “Me! A prostitute! But… that’s not all. He insists no one may be with me beside him.” Not that anyone else could. The man paid literal fortunes every nights to have full access to the place’s most prized dancer.

“And… he touches you, but… how?” Arthur couldn’t help but feel curious, even if it was misplaced jealousy.

Françoise simply ran her hand over her own breasts, as if innocently, yet, there was something odd in it. “Like this… it’s a little like… he was looking at something otherworldly. And he speaks… he calls every other dancers whores… he just… puts me on a pedestal and it makes me uncomfortable. I am a courtesan. I sleep with men. He doesn’t see me. He sees… I don’t know. He’s odd. And acts like I am his... he keeps saying it.”

Laying against him again, Françoise sighed, placing her head into his neck. The lodges were empty now, leaving only them, one against the other. Minutes passed, Arthur daring to wrap one arm around her, happy to see her snuggle against him.

“I need to sober up before going,” she announced, looking up to him with a pout. “Will you stay with me?”

He would have been a fool to refuse. Nodding in agreement, Arthur rolled his eyes, trying to look like he was accepting only because he felt like he had to. “Sure. Can’t leave someone like you alone, can we?”

“You have _such_ an original way to be nice.” Françoise laughed, laying a kiss on his cheek, then another, closer to his lips. “Mmh, this is a childish way to thank you, isn’t it?” Pulling his face toward hers, she laid a kiss on his lips, laying one hand on his cheeks. Arthur froze, as if amazed to have these pouty red lips against his own, his cheeks feeling like they would burn.

Françoise, again, giggled at his reaction, patting his cheek. “You truly are just an adolescent. God, look at you, blushing like this… I could just eat you up.”

Arthur grumbled, wanting to complain and use the venom of his words to fight, yet, childishly, as if fitting, he pulled her close again, joining their lips in another kiss. Françoise seemed delighted as his tongue sneaked inside her mouth, climbing on his laps to take his breath away. “Maybe _I’m_ going to eat you up,” Arthur teased when he pulled away for air, cheeks red, lips covered with smeared red lipstick.

Françoise giggled, watching him with a smirk, pecking his lips again. “Oh, come on, my dear. We need to eat diner comes before dessert, don’t you think, sweetheart?”

Oh. That… Flustered, the Briton rolled his eyes, scoffing at the idea. Françoise was too quick-witted to outdistance. He would have, still, if he had had the chance. He would have buried his face between her thighs, without even asking anything in return.

“I don’t want to be sober,” Françoise, whined, sitting on his laps, pouting. “You are just… I like talking with you.” Kissing him again, the dancer placed her hand on his half-hard cock, only hidden by his pants.

When she smirked, he excused himself, quite truthfully, “What? A hot woman is on my laps, kissing me, with her tits for all to see. I’m just a man.”

“You are,” she purred, rubbing her hand over it. “Most man would have jumped on me and be fucking me like rabbits do… and yet, you… are you gay?”

“What?” She had to be kidding. “I’m hard. Because of you kissing me. That doesn’t sound very gay to any of us, does it?”

“ _Non !_ But… Well… you _are_ hard because of me. But… bodies just… answer, you know?”

“I think your hair colour is affecting your brain.”

Françoise gasped, lightly slapping his shoulder with a soft glare. “Arthur! This isn’t how you will get in a woman’s bed. Maybe you are a virgin, in fact.”

Oh, as much as it seemed to amuse Françoise, Arthur had to shake his head. “No. I shagged a few girls here and there. I’m just… I have what is called self-control.” He understood a little making-out was more than enough for most to jump on the apparently offered occasion. However, just jumping on a woman seemed to be the easiest way to get her to never speak to you again. Arthur was smart enough to understand and preferred to be clearly allowed to and even then… Françoise seemed to want him now, yet, he felt quite content getting kissed, even if he was aroused.

Françoise pouted. “That would have made you even cuter.”

“Sorry. I can’t be everything _mademoiselle_ wishes for.” It was his turn to grin.

“You are yourself and that is quite enough, _mon lapin_.” She winked. If it hadn’t been her, Arthur would have probably been offended, but it was _Françoise_ telling him he had a chance. Was it what she meant? Leaning in again for a soft kiss, he laid his hand onto her thighs. It was as soft as he imagined, the skin almost satin-like under his fingertips.

Françoise laid his hand over his, their lips moving slowly together, as slowly as she brought his hand higher, carefully intertwining their fingers to press his hand to her wet crotch. Pulling away, Arthur watched her, confused. Looking much more relaxed than before, she sighed softly, putting his hand in the satin underwear she wore on stage.

The request couldn’t have been clearer, yet, Arthur hesitated, “Are you… are you sure?”

“Mmh… orgasms help with drunkenness. So… if you could please… it’s harder alone and I’m already rather late...”

Oh. Now he understood. Still hesitant nonetheless, Arthur felt his own arousal blur his mind as it was touched, the dancer’s hand expertly unhooking his belt to free him from his confined briefs, her fingers wrapping around the engorged verge. “Do you want me to…”

“Oh, no… just your hand, please.” She smiled, apologetic, but Arthur only shrugged – whatever, her hand was warm and soft against him; it would do just fine. He wanted more, like any sane man would have, but didn’t _need_ it.

Both of them laying down, Françoise on her back and him on his side, against the back of the couch, Arthur kissed her again. Her sex was warm and wet against his hand, supple even as he slid in his fingers inside. Cleanly shaved, waxed even, her skin was soft and smooth. She pulled the little clothes she wore to her knees, eyes closing in pleasure as he opened his to burn the image of her, almost undressed, his hand inside her wet cunt, her hips wriggling to ask for more.

Their lips and tongues joined naturally as their hands busied themselves. Arthur came ridiculously fast, Françoise’s skilled hands being much more pleasurable than any wench’s wet thighs on his hips, simply because he had wanted her for so long. Moaning inside their kiss, she guided his hand inside her, her fingers joining his own into her flesh. Arthur practically hardened again at the idea, watching her hand as it gripped his.

“Such nice hands,” she crooned, letting out tiny, breathless, high-pitched mewls into his neck, Arthur tried to focus, encouraged by the adorable way Françoise’s body squirmed, her movements becoming uncontrollable as she neared orgasm, clinging to him, body tensing and contorting without her being able to stop, feet wriggling before stilling as she finally came, spraying his hand with her juices.

Throwing her wet clothes away, Françoise turned around to lie against him, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting against him lazily. Arthur felt even more awkward hugging her like this, her body covered in a light shimmer of sweat, completely naked, his own, flaccid cock touching her lower stomach. “Thank you, Arthur… I really needed someone to be gentle with me…”

“Is he… you know, not… gentle?”

“Ludwig?” So that was his name. “Oh, no… he’s not doing anything _bad_ to me. He’s not really doing anything.” She rolled her eyes. “And he’s _huge_ – I’ve seen the outline of it. He never takes off his pants, still… that would hurt.”

Arthur felt victorious, knowing he had had more just now than this Ludwig probably ever would. Perhaps was it _he_ , the homosexual, trying to reconcile himself with the female body with one has beautiful as Françoise’s. “I see. He better not.”

The dancer pulled him close again for a kiss, looking between them with a little smile. Arthur was hardening again, even if just a little. The dancer noticed, looking down, apparently contrite at her inability to give him full intercourse – he wondered if she would have wanted it, too. “Sorry about that. I’m… a little worried of him touching me there and finding cum.”

“I could have… pulled out.” Arthur tried, unsure if he would have been able to do so. “I don’t mind, anyway.”

“I’ve heard that somewhere before. No, thank you.” Francis smirked, pulling on his cock lightly, looking mischievous. “Plus, I’d rather not have a child with eyebrows like yours. Or be a mother. That would just _ruin_ my body.”

Oh, now that stung a little. “Stop being a bitch.” Sitting up, Arthur tied his belt again, laying his head against her shoulder. “I see you’re feeling better. You’re already bullying me.”

“Oh, such a bully I am. Letting you use my tits as a pillow. My poor little Arthur… does he wants Franny to kiss it better?”

Arthur looked up, taking the occasion now that it was there, offered. “Yes.” Stealing another kiss, the Brit rolled over her, feeling the need to touch her after this, as she seemed to, pulling him into another kiss with a laugh.

“You learn fast, Kirkland.” Pulling herself away, Françoise stretched lazily, kneeling to kiss his face again. “You look truly wonderful, covered in my lipstick. Make sure it’s just mine, mh? I need to leave now.”

Shit. Reality, always coming back to ruin everything, didn’t it?

“I’ll still see you, um… Thursday? Mardi?”

“Tuesday. And yes, I’ll come.”

She smiled, walking away, sending him one last kiss, her playful eyes shining as she closed the door to the private rooms, leaving him once again, enamoured, hair messy, face covered in lipstick marks. Approaching a mirror, Arthur looked at himself, smiling radiantly at his own reflection, knowing that Beilschmidt would never have this side of her.

**Author's Note:**

> See y'all later for more.  
> Don't forget to comment.  
> I feel special when I get comments.  
> If you see anything weird: I'm a Frenchie.


End file.
